


Anima Mea

by ClutchHedonist



Series: Modern 24/7 BDSM AU [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: 24/7 au, Abuse, BDSM, GRADENCE - Freeform, Gravebone, M/M, Master/Slave, Oral Sex, Physical Abuse, Religious Conflict, SIN EVERYWHERE, Total Power Exchange, i am a dumpster child, let's just be honest i've stepped into honest fucking blasphemy here, sin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 05:17:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8698543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClutchHedonist/pseuds/ClutchHedonist
Summary: He barely makes it through the Gloria before his eyes begin to linger on the man, his broad, square jaw and the hint of grey at his temples. His hands tighten instinctively on the missal.

 
 
The beginnings of the Modern BDSM 24/7 AU, intertwined with a day in the life.





	

            _In the beginning is the word, and when Credence is young enough to still believe in it, he assumes that it will be enough. Each Sunday, between Chastity and Modesty in the line for the Eucharist, drifting through the lyrics of each hymn as he waits to receive, he reviews the penance assigned the evening before. Remembers the warmth of assurance of absolution. Prays, earnest and desperate, that the weight of his multitude sins won’t grow too heavy to bear before the next Saturday, heavy enough to force Mary Lou to early reconciliation._

 

            His knees ache, the feeling in his toes long forgotten. The tile floor has warmed against his forehead. Above him, Mister Graves hums quietly as he gives the pan on the burner a shake. Credence can detect something savory – rosemary? He has never been a good cook himself – as its scent blooms in the sauce. He breathes softly, measuredly. He is certain that Mister Graves hears him swallow, because fingertips ghost over the back of one bare shoulder before the man leans back up to his work.

 

_He is eighteen the first time Mister Graves appears across the aisle, the word long since faded into a low drone, as tuneless as the way he murmurs through each hymn. Mary Lou’s first term as senator will begin in January, and Credence has fastidiously polished the Christmas brooch on her dress for midnight mass. She has stopped beating him across the palms and knuckles since beginning her campaign, and although his back stings as he leans back into the first pew, he counts the rekindled agency of his fingers as a considerable blessing._

 

“Credence."

            He leans back onto his knees, “Yes, Sir?” 

            “The garlic. Peeled and chopped.”

            “Yes, Sir.” He rises, blood trickling back down into his calves and feet. Mister Graves steadies him with one broad hand in the small of his back. Credence blushes, skims one cheek gratefully over the man’s shoulder, “Thank you, Sir.”

 

            _He barely makes it through the Gloria before his eyes begin to linger on the man, his broad, square jaw and the hint of grey at his temples. His hands tighten instinctively on the missal, and he looks to Mary Lou. Her gaze remains fixed on the priest. Credence doesn’t imagine that she’ll look away while they’re in the first row, certainly not on a holiday. That doesn’t mean that she won’t notice._

 

            There are no guests to accommodate this evening, none of Mister Graves’s regulars paying a visit to take up the four chairs at their dining room table, and so Credence has permission to sit in the one at Mister Graves’s right. He sets the table as Graves plates each dish from the stove, then moves to wait beside the chair.

            “Sit.” Graves commands as he arrives with the final dish, setting it atop the trivet that Credence has laid out for it.

            Credence obeys.

 

            _He’s sitting in the same seat the first Sunday after Christmas, alone. Credence can count the other families in the church on two hands, and besides the man across the aisle, can name every one of them. Mary Lou murmurs sourly about the “Christmas and Easter crowd” as she guides the family up to their pew in the front of the sanctuary._

_Just at the edge of his field of vision, Credence can see him glance over. A flood of warmth buzzes beneath the surface of his skin, and he feels something drop in his chest. He scrambles to busy himself with bookmarking the readings for the service._

_The man returns the next week, and the next, and Credence bites the inside of his cheek raw._

 

            The weight of Graves’s gaze is heavy on him as the older man takes his seat. Credence allows himself a glimpse from the corner of his eye, never fully lifting his face.

            Graves leans back in his chair, a smile playing at the corner of his lips, “Go on.”

            Warmth rises in the boy’s cheeks. Long, slim hands flutter up from beneath the table, fold over one another in practiced motion, “Bless, O Lord, this food to our use and us in thy service-”

 

            _She begins belting him for it when Credence finds an excuse to talk to the man for the second time in February. It is, as it always is, for his own good, and he knows that each and every invective she uses to describe him – degenerate, immoral, unhealthy – is true._

_“The way you look at him – filthy.” She grates over a battery of strikes across his shoulders._

_“I’m sorry, Ma. I’m sorry.” His knuckles turn white around the post of his bed. He repeats it over and over again as she opens the welts of her first impacts._

 

Mister Graves reads in the study after supper. When he leans back in his armchair, Credence’s back bows beneath his feet to accommodate the motion. The carpet is soft, familiar against his elbows and knees, and the gentle tinkling of ice as Graves lifts his rye sour lulls Credence into stillness.

His eyes are half-lidded when one of Graves’s heels nudges down against the last whispers of a bruise just below his shoulder. The sensation pulls a shudder up through him. A soft exhalation catches Graves’s attention.

“Credence?”

“My back-…f-…from the caning, Sir.” He murmurs as he arches faintly.

Graves lets out a low chuckle, “My insatiable boy.”

 

_When his back brushes back against the pew at that week’s service, the wounds sing against the fabric of his starched shirt. He jolts forward, and his jaw clamps down on a strangled cry. Across the aisle, the man’s eyebrows cant._

_He’s watching him, and he knows it. It’s become a sort of preternatural awareness, as if the man’s attention is something tangible, something that tightens, grips at him every time he moves to escape it, wraps itself around his torso and throat and thin biceps and presses him close in on himself. Credence forces his body rigid. He swallows once, then again, before hazarding a glance towards him._

_The man’s eyes are dark, knowing. For a sliver of a moment, they lock with Credence’s, and he swears that the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears will leave him deaf. Then, the corner of the man’s mouth tightens into a hint of a smile, and the ugly, hungry thing that lives in the pit of Credence’s stomach roars into wakening. As the organ begins to groan its prelude, he nudges past Modesty with one shoulder, head lowered, and makes for the restroom._

 

Graves’s hands are solid, demanding, and feeling them gripping his hips, pulling him down over his lap with one thigh on either side, sets every nerve in Credence’s body alight.

            “Sir…” He bows his head to press his forehead to Graves’s collarbone.

            “Such a sweet boy.” Graves mutters beside his ear, and Credence’s thighs twitch at the praise. He can feel himself begin to grow hard against the older man’s stomach.

            “Please, Sir.” He accents the request with a gentle roll of his hips.

            Graves voices his appreciation low in his throat, a soft rumble against Credence’s temple, then hooks his thumb around the boy’s jawline and lifts his face to his own, “Tell me what you need, Credence.”

            Credence’s breaths begin to come warm and shallow. One hand fists in the rolled-up sleeve of Graves’s button down, “Please, Sir, l-let me be good for you…” He stammers.

 

            _He catches him in the narthex. Credence stumbles, barely choking back a startled gasp as the man pulls up ahead of him from the side aisle._

_“I-I-” He stutters as his hands instinctively fly up in front of himself._

_The man arches an eyebrow, “…Are you all right?”_

_“I-” Credence jerks a quick nod._

_“You’re hurt.”_

_Falling silent, Credence lets his hands drop to his sides. He struggles for words for a few moments, then simply shakes his head._

_“I know what it looks like.” The older man takes a step closer. He pauses when Credence’s eyes widen, “I’m not going to hurt you.”_

_“Wh-who are you?”_

_The man extends a hand, “Percival Graves.”_

 

            Credence’s chest heaves as he lowers himself down between Graves’s knees. The older man is hard, now, and Credence nuzzles at him eagerly over his slacks. Graves gives a soft, pleased hiss, and his fingers find the boy’s dark hair and sift through it.

            “So lovely…”

            “S-Sir…” Credence’s cheeks darken.

            Graves tilts his chin up with the crook of one finger, “Go on.”

            Credence nods eagerly, and his fingers set to freeing the other man from his slacks. His breath catches in his throat when he manages it, and he sighs out a soft, “Oh…” at the sight of him.

            Graves takes his cock in hand for a few languid strokes, and Credence nearly whines aloud. Instead, he presses his cheek against the inside of Graves’s thigh, stills himself utterly, save for his flickering lashes.

            “My good boy.”

            Graves runs his other thumb over the curve of the boy’s mouth to part his lips. Credence, breath hot, allows it immediately. When the digit slips past his teeth, he sucks at it with reverence. Graves indulges his eager mouth for only a few moments before he draws back with a slick pop. Credence’s lips are already red, swollen. One broad palm cups his cheek.

            “Beautiful.” 

 

_The first time that he slips out to meet him, Credence tells his mother that he’s going to bible study. Graves picks him up at the side door of the church in a black Lexus._

_“You hungry?” He asks, one hand on the wheel._

_“I-…yes.” Credence admits._

_“Not a vegetarian, are you?”_

_“No. Ma says they’re weak of faith.”_

_He jumps when Graves barks out a short laugh, “Is that so?”_

_“…A-Are you one?”_

_The older man shakes his head, still chuckling to himself, “No. No, I’m not.”_

 

Credence is shaking in earnest, digging his nails into the carpet to keep from rutting against the floor.

            “Please, please, Sir…” He whimpers.

            Graves watches him for a long moment, and Credence feels the length of breadth of each breath in his lungs pass by in slow motion. Then, Graves brushes the pad of his thumb along the boy’s cheekbone.

            “You have my permission.”

            Credence swallows his length as if starved. A groan rattles his entire frame, vibrating in his throat against Graves’s prick and setting the man’s hips rolling into motion. Cheeks hollowing as he draws in each thrust, Credence smooths his palms over the tops of Graves’s thighs. His shoulders rock down to the elbows as he bows to plunge himself down over the other man’s cock.

            Graves’s praise showers down over him, warm, low murmurs of, “marvelous” and, “brilliant” urging Credence open to every inch of him. The boy’s hips thrash down against the floor, cock straining against his briefs, staining the front of them as he begins to leak in earnest. He breathes in strained pants through his nose, and when Graves’s hand curls tight in his hair and drags him close to finish down his throat, Credence writhes out his own quivering climax against him.

 

_Credence folds his hands in his lap and peers out the window as the city begins to roll by._

_“Don’t talk much, do you?” Graves arches an eyebrow._

_Credence ducks his head, “S-Sorry.”_

_“No, no. It’s good. Thoughtful.” The other man assures him, and his hand gives Credence’s knee a brief pat._

_“Y-You come to ch-church alone.” Credence blurts out to cover the shudder that jerks through him._

_Graves glances over at him, “So do you.”_

_“Wh-”_

_“It’s a tight leash they’re keeping you on, isn’t it? But it doesn’t fit you.”_

_Credence’s jaw tightens, “Ma keeps us on the right path.”_

_“Does she?”_

Graves gathers the boy’s spent limbs into the chair with him, and Credence, trembling, lays his cheek against Graves’s chest.

            “Th-…tha-…” He slurs.

            Graves smooths his dark hair back from his forehead, watches him patiently as he massages one thumb into the nape of his neck.

            “Th-th-…thank you, Sir.”

**Author's Note:**

> I earnestly just cannot stop sinning this sin. Please help me sin it more by giving me evil prompts at clutchhedonist.tumblr.com (or just talking to me, I promise that I WILL TALK ABOUT SO MUCH SIN.)


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